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Haliya
Haliya was a human barbarian assassin was a Ruhxian warrior that worked for the Shrine of the Chemarn. She and a number of other warriors traveled into White Plume Mountain to retrieve artefacts stolen by the wizard Keraptis. The Nergui-Gur The little girl's black hair whipped madly in the wind as she sprinted down the rain-soaked street, laughing breathlessly as her older brother chased her. In her hands she held his favourite toy, an armoured soldier, carved from fine wood and studded with precious metals, it would buy a year's food for a family in the refugee camps at the edge of Ruhx. Here though, in perfumed Kohorsa district, high above the throngs and the mire, it was simply the plaything of a princeling. '' ''The warm rain put manner on her wild dark hair and soaked her silken clothes. The cries of her brother diminished as his breath gave out, his bad leg and growing paunch meant he was never a physical match for his peers, the implications of which were only dimly entering her understanding. The image of his tear-swollen eyes flashed across her mind, and she stopped in her tracks, guilt washing over her in childish suddenness. Her face scrunched up in rage as her emotions broiled, the sudden clarity of consequence swept up in the sea of unchecked feeling. It wasn't fair for him to be mad, she was only playing. Then she noticed her soaked hair and clothes, noticed she was in unfamiliar surroundings and as sadness and rage replaced mirth, now fear swept down upon her. '' N''o faces were turned to regard the young noblewoman with the dark hair. No greedy eyes lingered on the bejewlled statuette or her own patrician features. Only the low, hurried chanting of protective spells and confessions now filled the busy market square. Darkened by the rain, the press of rich fabric around the young noblewoman crept to and fro, some retreating with faces turned in fright, some creeping closer, curiosity getting the better of them. The girl pushed through a forest of silken trousers and velvet robes, coin purses hanging from belts like golden beehives from high boughs. The sight of the woman froze the blood in the girl's veins. She had never seen poverty, never beheld the state of the vast numbers of her countrymen who swole the size of the great city of Ruhx. Never either had she seen violence, her meats appeared cooked before her, her pets tamed beyond even the basest urgings of an animal's instincts. And as one who has never seen the sea can never concieve of its storms, one who has never seen violence could never dream of the savagery that stood before her. The Nergui-Gur was wiping the blood from her long knives, her shoulders and arms twitching irritably as the intricate tattoo that laced them peeled off into the air, like a bowl of ashes caught in a sudden breeze. The edges of her lips twitched as the ancient symbols dissipated, but her eyes were cold and focused. The body that lay before her was no cutpurse or blackhand, but a nobleman in the garb of government office. The slash in his throat grinned wide, the rain making the blood flow thin, like wine flowing from the mouth of a laughing drunkard. His face was a mask of blood where she had removed his eyes, for the Whisperer, and his canines, for the Hunter. Only one trophy remained. For the Judge. The woman stooped and shot her hand into an open wound just under the man's ribcage, paying no heed to the gasp of the crowd as she wrenched out the man's heart, stuffing it in a dark stained bag. The remaining crowd backed away, the curious cursing their weakness, muttering protective chants. The Nergui-Gur smiled a grim smile as her title was whispered on a dozen mouths. Nergui-Gur, Nergei-Gur, may she never come for me. May she never learn of my misdeeds. The woman turned around to see a child in soaked silks standing, white-faced and open-mouthed. A young nobleman hobbled around the corner, and, eyes widening, vomited instantly. The Shrine of the Chemarn Haliya's long strides were taking her quickly up the rocky hill, but she still hunched her shoulders. The outcrop was entirely bare of tree of shrub, only the loose rocks and pebbles that baked in the summer sun and burned her soles through her shoes. As one used to the winding streets and high cliffs of Ruhx, such emptiness was anathema. Nothing hid her approach to the shrine, or to her mark. She checked her breathing as she ascended, slowing slightly. This may begin very quickly, and with wizards, it had to end quickly too. Her Gur-Nechai tattoos had faded slightly during the long journey, but she knew their potency would last until the heart of the marked was stopped. Around her eyes and forehead the sacred symbols of the Whisperer were etched, weaving in great and small spirals of intricate design, much more elaborate than she usually bore. "He who sees all secrets will guide you through any illusions this wizard may conjure" The tattoos of her eyes linked elegantly with those around her nostrils and mouth, which themselves ran down her neck and arms. "With the Hunter's sense you will seek her out, with the Hunter's skill she will not escape." But the most elaborate tattoos were reserved for her chest. Like the tributaries of a river, the markings flowed from a central, rectangular shape, in which was etched a name in a script she could not read. "The name is Ofira Da, her crime is black sorcery. For the Judge you will act as judgement, and the judgement is death." The shrine was unlike those in Ruhx, where the peoples had long favoured stone dwellings for their gods. Here, in the plains of Marn, the herders placed their prayers under the sky. The drab slope gave way to a copse of colourful poles, each covered in bright silks and cloths of a hundred hues. The bunting caught in the wind, writhing and snapping. The randomness of it was so far removed from the steady ritual of her own temple that she stood dumbstruck. Each cloth held a prayer, and each prayer formed part of the mass of colour and movement. Some were frayed by time and wind, others bright and new, but all had their moments of brilliance when the wind caught them, snapping them to attention above the mass, the prayer, colour and symbols bright and defiant under the blue sky. The cloths that snapped out were like shouts of defiance above a chorus of appeals, a cry against the uncaring sky above and the hard land below. And then, transfixed by the movement of the cloth, she heard the prayers voiced in her mind. Calls for good harvest, protections against disease, cries for sons gone to war, or lovers dead in childbirth. Curses and oaths, promises and entreaties. A hundred years of petitions snapped in the wind, and she heard them all. The Gur-Nechai on her forehead began to glow softly, and the whisper of insight entered her mind. These petitions were an illusion, but The Whisperer would soon give her clarity. Almost impercievable to an observer, Haliya's muscles tensed like a drawn bow, the din of illusory spirits screaming in her head reached a fever pitch, but she ignored it. She waited. And then, like a palace door slammed shut on a mob, the ghostly chorus stopped, and she saw a figure in dirty robes at the centre of the shrine, bare pale arms weaving a spell to entrap her. Haliya screamed as she leaped, the tension in her muscles releasing in a war cry that could stop the heart of the feeble, and cower the mighty. Her leap closed the distance, shortsword darting, and she landed in the hard gravel, sending pebbles flying down the sloped sides of the hill. The headless trunk of the sorceress spouted blood into the thirsty earth. Her pale, beautiful visage, now smeared with dirt where her head had fallen and rolled, grew whiter as the life poured from it. Haliya let out a breath and twitched as the Gur-Nechai tattoo flaked off her body into the wind, the name of Ofira Da printed onto her chest disappearing last. She collected her trophies. Eyes that had seen black sorcery would go to the Whisperer, for he kept all secrets men should never know. Offerings of teeth to the Hunter, who carved trophies from the fangs of every living being in his bone palace. The heartsblood to the Judge, to know the work was done. She also took the liver, for it was known that the liver of a sorceress carried many magical properties. She was sure she could find a buyer. Journey into the East The temple had withstood the earthquakes that had levelled so much of Ruhx after the fall of the crystal sword. The tidal waves that followed, drowning the now-tortured earth, had not found the temple either, perched as it was high on one of Ruhx's raw cliffs, where the stone had been jutted upward on that terrible day. The vantage point it now held would be the envy of any city watchtower or vain nobleman, but none questioned whether the temple could be moved, for it was the home of the Nergui-Gur, and the less said of the Nergui-Gur, the better. Haliya entered through the side gate to the complex, the heavy iron key cold in her hands as she crossed the threshold. The main entrance was always thronged with petitioners. The hate-filled, the grieving, the desparate. Those who found no justice from the city watch, and had no power to take justice themselves. Every day they came to beseech the Tribunal of Maargad, offering prayers to the idols within the temple. Most were never answered. The will of the gods is unknowable to the minds of men, and what names were chosen for judgement were not the business of mortals. Haliya was quite sure none of the names shouted or whispered in the Temple by the throngs were ever chosen, but their offerings kept the priests and acolytes fed, and the hope it gave the faithful was itself a miracle. Winter, or what passed for winter in Ruhx, had left her chilled as she had hiked up to the Temple, and she was glad of the warm fires within. The smell of cooking made her nostrils flare, her stomach growled in response. But fasting was necessary before the Writing. When the throngs were pushed from the temple by grim-faced acolytes, Haliya left her chambers and walked to the hall. The three idols, Whisperer, Hunter, Judge, loomed in the expanse of the room. The scrawny stone form of the Whisperer lay almost hidden in the mass of black robes draped around the statue. The blank-eyed grin on the statue's face peered from under a heavy hood. The Hunter sat cross-legged on his pedestal, a thick-muscled man etched from bright white stone, but nearly indiscernable under the looping cords of teeth, claws and fangs that had been draped over him over the decades. Only the Judge stood clear to behold, in the centre of the trio. Genderless and without doubt the best carving, the stern, knitted brows beheld all who stood in the hall. Baska was whistling a low, sad tune as she approached, which was most unlike him. The grim surroundings and grimmer tasks might inspire a blackness of soul, but Baska always lit up the temple with mirth and good cheer. Now his song was mournful, and it put Haliya on edge. "What has you so glum, Baska? Have they finally asked you to write your own name?" "Bah, enough blasphemies from you for one day, sit here". He struck the stone in front of him harshly, but she saw the smile that cracked his old face. His blind eyes turned towards her. "I whistle my sad song because I will miss you, Haliya. This one will take you far away I fear, to Orjer." "Orjer? So far?" She thought of her lover Natha, he would be devastated. But he was soft, and the gods were hard. "Mmm, far and strange, and the Writing is stranger still. This is no ordinary task Haliya. A sorcerer amasses artefacts of power. For this, three things will be written." "I don't deal with things, I deal with people" she snapped, rage rising. "I know, I know. Please" he gently tapped the stone in front of him. "For this the Gur-Nechai must be enduring and precise, and must protect you against much, it will take time. The dull knife that painted the gritty, viscous ink on to her flesh scraped harshly against the stone bowl as Baska worked. Through the night he drew the most intricate patterns up and down her body, patterns she had never seen. When dawn broke he finished his work, and removed the matchstick from his robes. "This will hurt a bit more than usual" "You don't say, I can barely see my own skin" "Are you ready?" "Always" The match struck and he pressed it against the words on her chest, the powder that gritted the ink ignited, flashburning the entire pattern into her skin in a matter of seconds. The light was blinding, and she crushed her eyelids shut against the brightness and pain. The blind Writer and the Nergei-Gur never saw the shapes and colours that were illuminated in the ancient room, never saw the images that it revealed on the walls, and never beheld the expressions of the Tribunal Idols shift and change as a new judgement was set in motion. Category:Characters Category:Farthrone Category:Ruhx